


Webolette

by bonehandledknife (ladywinter), Primarybufferpanel (ArwenLune)



Series: The Mountains Are The Same [49]
Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Pairings present in the background only, Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-23
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6941299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladywinter/pseuds/bonehandledknife, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/pseuds/Primarybufferpanel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Webolette: A piece of webbing with eyes sewn into the ends which can be used in place of a cordelette.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“You want to be part of the scouting party,” Capable guessed, trimming a bit at a broken nail.</i></p><p>  <i>“That obvious?”</i></p><p>  <i>Capable looked up and met Toast’s eyes. “Isn’t that what you’ve been training for?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Webolette

The next day a very excited messenger came to say that the signal tower in Bullet Farm had suddenly begun to flash; it had been completely silent all this time. The message, a cautious first inquiry about possible trade, made it clear that Volt had spread the word about his dealings with Citadel.

It meant, Capable thought - hoped - that things were slowly heading toward a new balance. None of them had even thought to send messages to the other strongholds; they'd all been so busy establishing the new order of the Citadel there hadn't been much time or energy for worry on what lay beyond.

She hummed as she worked sunflower seed oil into Toast’s hands while speaking this outloud; they were on a bench in the baths and Capable took the opportunity to pamper her a little. Her sister had sought more lessons than just in self-defense from the Vuvalini, wanting to learn guns, both how to learn them and how to shoot. She’d sought lessons in engine-work from the repair boys and lessons in inventory and stocks from Stuffs. The work had left new calluses and muscles on the woman who sought to Know as much as she could and Capable felt like they’d become less known to each other in the process, as Capable’s time was eaten up by her time being whisked around the Citadel mediating disputes before they could fester and getting people aid and supplies and information and attention before disputes could even occur. What time she could snatch she’d poured into learning what she could to better help the infirmary.

Never again did she want to only be able to say someone’s name as they lay dying.

(“ _Furiosa_.”)

The blood never frightened her like it did the others, neither did pain, and she found herself suited to the work even as Feng looked at her and found her wanting.

(“Why isn’t that other one here, the tall one? Why must I waste my time with this?” Feng stared at her and Capable stared back, mulishly. One of them needed to learn how to heal and Dag didn’t have the temperament, it was all the blond could do not to lash out during bad moments and Dag stared at the Soundless like they were everything she was afraid of being.

But she knew she couldn’t say any of this to Feng’s face.

“You can’t look at your patients as _people_ , you have to detach yourself,” the older woman continued, despite working on the arm of a war boy caught in a repair accident.

“I focus more if I care.” Capable replied, and exchanged glances with Throttle. He quirked his mouth at her wryly but his eyes screamed, _don’t leave me alone with her._

“You’ll drive yourself insane that way girl.”

 _I’ll be stronger than you,_ Capable thought as she turned back to look at Feng steadily. The old woman shifted her gaze away first.)

There was so much to learn about the body that she was glad for the help she got from Janey and Ace to keep an eye on things with the warboys, Dag’s eye on the terraces, and Cheedo flitting about letting her know what might need her mediation the most. And Toast—

“We should send out scouts once we’re getting steady supplies from Gastown,” Toast said, watching as Capable massaged  her small calloused hand. “I want to look into the trading town Max mentioned, now that the Soundless are becoming integrated there’s a chance of trades falling off because nomads can’t levy our factions against each other and drive up cost.”

“You want to be part of the scouting party,” Capable guessed, trimming a bit at a broken nail.

“That obvious?”

Capable looked up and met Toast’s eyes. “Isn’t that what you’ve been training for?”

“Not trained enough yet,” Toast seemed frustrated, her arm tensing as if recalling her latest spar.

But Capable remember long tea-filled afternoons where they sat around recalling what they could of outside. Cheedo couldn’t supply many memories of her own as her mother presented her to the lift even as she’d been nursing, but her mother used her as a ticket into the Citadel and was able to raise her long enough for Cheedo to remember her stories of the Wasteland. Of them all, Toast remembered the most, having come from a tribe of those same nomad traders. She remembered the most how the trades happened, things to say and do.

(Up until Toast herself became traded. Which is why Capable cannot say to her anything like, ‘you know trading,’ because she is not willing to hurt Toast with the implication.)

“Soon though,” Capable said with pride and confidence. Toast seemed to lift her chin at Capable’s surety, and she smiled at being able to give her sister that. She stood up and got behind Toast, “Here, let me treat your face as well.”

Toast laid back on the bench so that Capable could reach easier, solar-steamed towels already at hand, and huffed, “It’s nice to be able to do this for _ourselves_.”

Unspoken was that this was something Joe had demanded of them, to treat their skin and pretty themselves for him, and distasteful for all that it was nice. Now that Joe was gone, however… “You’ll help me with mine after?”

“Of course, you’ve helped with mine,” Toast murmured, eyes closed, “Shine ourselves up for the party and all.”

The calm of the room was broken by Cheedo and Dag crashing into it, laughing, both of them streaked with dirt.

“All’s well?” Capable asked Cheedo, who broke off and smiled back.

“Peaceful, everyone’s buzzing about the party.” There was a small frown of thought, “I’m watching the dissenters who are doubting the women hosting, saying it’s frivolous, and alerted Kompass so he could get more eyes on it. Most are just curious though. Greenthumbs say they might attend the next one if this one goes smooth.”

Capable nodded and watched as Cheedo returned to teasing Dag about the knots she’s getting in her hair, dragging her over to the stools and basin where they could rinse up before using the communal solar-heated tub in the corner.

“I almost want to chop the whole thing off,” Dag snarled as both she and Cheedo worked at it valiantly.

“Be less easy to grab,” Toast opinioned.

Cheedo looked over at her, after a pause.

“Was that why you cut it off?”

“Partially,” Toast admitted. “...And also to piss off Joe.”

“You’d think Angharad would’ve done that then.” Dag laughed, but they all looked toward Capable as they tended to do when thinking of Angharad, Capable having known her best. And Angharad really _did_ hate Joe that much but.

“Angharad,” she sighed and paused her work, looking off into the middle distance, “she knew, Furiosa too, that there was a chance it’d come down to fighting. That’s why they’d settled on ‘no _unnecessary_ killing’.”

“And what did that have to do with her hair?” Dag demanded.

“...she _knew_ ,” Cheedo breathed after a quiet moment, horror in her tone, putting it together quickly. “She knew she needed it against Joe, like, like a disguise. To be _Splendid,"_ she made a face, "when it was needed. A defense. She was _ready to_ —!”

“She always threw her body in front of us to defend us. Taking as much of Joe’s attention as she could, even though we all tried to get him to ignore her too.” Toast added quietly.

They let that thought settle for a long moment.

Dag fingered the ends of her hair, watching Capable, “Is that why you’re keeping yours long?”

“It’s easy to spot. A good distraction,” Capable said steadily. Then cracked a grin, “And I like it.”

When Dag looked at Cheedo, Cheedo shrugged, “Mine don’t really tangle, and the dark makes it easy to blend in.”

Toast sat up and folded her arms on her knees, “But don’t do it for our reasons if they don’t sit well.”

 _What would suit you?_ Her dark gaze prodded.

“I…maybe,” Dag folded her fingers against each other, rubbing at her dark tattoos. “Woven long like lives, bordered by wastes.”

“What?” Cheedo asked with forehead furrowed .

Dag looked over at her, “I remember… seeing some of the people in our tribe, the ones who had paired off, wear their hair so instead of mohawked. Shaved sides, and the rest in a tight braid.” She glanced at Cheedo. "I want it like that."

Capable liked the way even the idea of it sat on her, and Toast looked from Dag to Cheedo with a tiny grin.

“I can do the sides,” Toast offered, reaching for the razor. Capable brought over the oils and a hot wet towel over to help prep the hair.

“Would you let me weave?” Cheedo asked quietly, placing her hand over Dag’s hand tattoos.

“...yes.” Dag replied, staring back as if there was no other reply.

Capable and Toast exchanged a quick glance, Toast hiding a grin in a cough and Capable thinking wryly of a blue gaze and a sweetness she’d chased out from underneath War.

“Witnessed.” She said.

“But that word—”

“Let’s make that for life as much, if not more so, as for death.” Capable insisted. “Angharad would have—”

They all looked at each other.

“Witnessed.” Toast agreed, and they all broke at that, laughing from... not joy exactly, or sadness, or amusement, but maybe all three. Maybe none of those but instead an excess of feeling.

(It felt like Angharad was there, watching too.

Or that they finally filled enough of her space with themselves... and maybe this was grief for it being so.)

 

* * *

 

Things were changing, in a good way, Treb thought, and this here with this drumming that the breeders were sharing was one of them. He thought about being asked to listen for the first time on the other side of their door and their wary faces when they first found him.

"Let me ask first, okay?" Treb told Clef and Tim as they walked up to the mess hall, passing by some Distro boys hauling in some grub. Looked to be mealworm biscuits, even. "The invitation was for me, I don't want them to feel like we're invading." It was the day after their latest Tenday so everyone felt the momentum of sharing names, sharing stories. But Volt’s arrival and the memory of that alert wariness and fear made Treb more aware of how he didn’t want to spread that wariness. Didn’t want to trespass like he’d feared trespass from those vehicles that briefly ruined the peace of that day.

"But we're bringing instruments!" Timpani said, hefting a small set of double drums. Clef was carrying a sort of tiny guitar-like thing he'd patched up until it made a tolerable sound. Treb had a crate full of bells and triangles and other small soundmakers. He'd also brought some of their precious spare strings for that board instrument he'd heard.

"It's just… I dunno if they'll take that as 'here, we can do better'. Things are difficult, okay? Just hang back and let me figure out how welcome we are."

There wasn't any music yet, just voices and noise. To his surprise, Kompass was already in the mess, shoving at tables and benches together with some of the breeders. The Drummer Boys set down their things on a ledge and jumped in to help.

Treb was busy making a wide circle space when he noticed a breeder looking at him. She was beautiful, with high cheekbones and a mass of dark curls bound back, her skin only a little lighter than his,but the most striking were the swirls of grey-white paint on her arms and legs. The patterns was different, but she looked like she'd had the same idea as he when doing her paint, curlicues like music notes and curves that recalled instruments. He tried not to stare, not wanting to make her uneasy, but he was trying to be certain the markings _were_ music notes and not referencing something else. He hadn't forgotten that even his being outside of their barred door had made some of the breeders look nervous.

Instead he glanced over at the guys, checking to make sure they were still keeping themselves in check.

Treb, Tim and the others in the band had never been awarded a visit to the breeder quarters. Drummers hadn't been deemed worthy of it, and he'd always been envious when he'd heard warboys talk about it. Now that the Tribunes were saying it hadn't been… hadn't been willing, not really, hadn't been _right_ , he wasn't sad about it anymore.

Not staring was much harder once he realised she was the one with the string-board instrument.

"Treb!" one of the old women from the canyon greeted him, and he startled to attention. Gilly, he remembered. "Welcome."

"Thank you. Do you think— I brought the other drummers. Do you think that's okay?"

"I'm sure it is, if they know how to behave," she told him.

Treb looked around to check on them again. "We brought some things. Instruments and spare strings and… could you ask if they would like those?" He felt very aware of the memory of interrupting their party, bringing the music to a halt, and being asked to be on the other side of that door. If they retreated again, after all this preparation, he wasn't sure they'd ever come back out again or what he was gonna break on dealing with that.

Gilly reached up and patted him on the shoulder. "I'm sure it'll be fine, but I will ask, if you like."

 

The breeders began forming a large circle, and Treb idly wondered how they knew when to do that; he hadn't seen or heard any signal, and even the young kids joined. Some of the breeders ushered in the girls in the black robes of the Soundless too. They all held hands, and he met Clef's eyes, they and the warboys that were present watching, unsure if this was something they should join. There didn’t seem to be any sign of what came next, what they were all waiting for. When the singing started, Treb was relieved he hadn't tried.

The song was in words he didn't understand. He'd only ever heard Warboy songs, simple chanting-like things, usually with rude words, so the many voices falling into a harmony was— new, and made a shiver go down his spine, his breath coming a little short. It was obviously a familiar song for most of them, the older breeders leading the different voices, and at one point some of them sang counter-words, as if there were questions and answers.

The song rose, louder and higher, reverberating against the stone, until it ended in a single, great footstomp, and Treb felt revved up, like his whole body was vibrating, his heart beating double time. Tim, next to him, looked just as wide-eyed, as did the other warboys that had arrived.

It felt like something hanging in the air that couldn't, shouldn't be disturbed, and Treb watched, his breath shallow as if not to disrupt anything. Then suddenly the breeder with the big belly who had talked to him before, told him to listen outside, made a gesture as if swiping away the tension, and there was an ululating cry, and suddenly there were handclaps and footstomps and the circle broke open, the tension fading from the room.   

Suddenly it was easy to find the rhythm and support it on the small drums they'd brought. Treb took a set of bells from the crate and then pushed the crate where people could see it easily, hoping others might take soundmakers if they wanted them. He spotted the young pup - Damar? - with his bell, and when other kids saw the crate, they came over for their own soundmakers. It was briefly a loud cacophony, and Treb cringed, wondering if that had been his most terrible idea to date. But the head breeder, Marienny, somebody said her name was, just laughed at the enthusiastic pups, starting to organise them together with the pretty breeder with the string board.

There was a burst of loud random sounds and then Marienny started up a strong base beat on the big drum. Some of the pups glanced around, and then naturally followed her, some precisely, some double or triple timed chimes to the beat. There were a couple that just laughed and shook out some random sounds, but eventually there was some sort of pattern going on.

The woman with the string board settled on the ledge not far from him and began to play a melody, and Treb could pay attention to nothing else, transfixed by her face as she concentrated on the music. Both her hands worked at the melody, producing something which had familiar rhythms, only he felt the sound like a half-forgotten language. If a guitar was a single voice, her instrument was a conversation within itself, like the song they’d opened with but in instrument form.

There was a couple musical phrases however that he found clever but, almost stilted. Treb didn’t know how to explain it in a different way, but it was like watching Toolbox move on his spring leg, a great adaptation but. But a workaround for a hurt.

He stared harder at her hands, and at the instrument, and he thought, _Was that a string missing?_

Treb distractedly fingered the replacement strings in his belt pouch. Maybe he could… he pulled it out and hesitated, but when she paused her playing to adjust something about her instrument he got up and walked into her space. Cleared his throat, stalling and not knowing what to say but the sound made her look up.

She raised an eyebrow and he looked away and scratched at his neck a bit. Held out the strings to her and shrugged.

And she started...

She started laughing, and took them from him, and her laughter sounded sweet, like the little bells.

Before the uncertainty and upset could even fully crawl across his face she started fixing the missing string and said towards it, head bent, “Thank you.”

He went really still, listening for her as the party whirled around them.

“It’d been missing a string for a long time,” she glanced up again, “Been like that since I got it.”

"Glad I could help." He hesitated. Names were important. "I'm Treb. What's your name?"

“Would you even remember it if I told you?” She gave him a look he didn't understand, narrow-eyed and mouth tight.

"How could I forget? I've never heard anybody play this shine."

"That so?" She tilted her head as she examined him, and some of her hostility seemed to fade. "I've never seen you in the breeders quarters," she said finally, her tone inviting him to talk.

"I, uh, never—" he gestured aimlessly. It had always been an embarrassment not to be considered worthy of visits, and he was uncertainly feeling his idea around the idea that it might be a good thing now. "Was one of Doof's drummers."

"Ah."

“I could make a song of it,” Treb said after a moment of silence. “Your name. Make sure everyone remembers it too.”

“And what would you sing about?”

Treb opened his mouth, and then thought a bit. He shook his head, “I know the shape of the music, but I don’t know the words. Maybe. Would you like to…?”

“Fill in the words?” A smile threatened at the corners of the mouth, “That I can certainly do. Name’s Naaka.”

“Naaka,” Treb repeated. _Sounds like a melody,_ he thought.

 

* * *

 

Rett could hear the drumming and music three hallways away. It was strange to just hear it like this, music had always been either the Doof Warrior riding away from the Citadel while Rett stayed behind, or exclusively for the Immortan. He'd never heard music played and shared just anywhere, for anyone to listen to.

The mess was all awhirl with breeders and kids and boys from Doof’s crew, some milkers poking their heads in and whispering to each other, and some warboys too. He was glad to spot a couple of Furiosa's crew; most her repair boys chatting with Toolbox and the general repair crews but Kompass was sitting to the side and the man had close workings with those on the Council.

Rett greeted Kompass with a nod, and settled down next to him on a bench. “Hey, ace. Whatcha staring at that’s made you all amused-lookin’?”

“Check those two out.”

“Eh?”

“Over there, by the pups with all the jangling. One of Doof’s drummers with a breeder.”

It took him a moment to find what Kompass was talking about, but only a moment. The two were the only ones not in motion, seeming to be nearly frozen around one another and caught up in looking at each other. “Those two look to be trading paint tonight.”

“Or sometime soon.” Kompass grinned, then went a little solemn, “How's life going for you? Our repair bays holding up okay? I know supplies are...”

“...yeah.” Rett nodded, “Toolbox is still in a bit of a scramble about the aqua cola pipes, and our Repair crew’s had to wrangle rigs away from other crews, but it’s not like those crews haven’t traitored us by throwing in with Joe or Noxious. Me an’ WD called dibs on the best for our Imperator ages ago and no one’s been brake enough to challenge.”

"Getting started on a new rig?"

"Nothing as shine as the old one, we don't have the frame for it. Ain't got more than a coupl'a dodgy old vans to cobble together. Though I guess now we got fuel, the Imperator could send a crew to the canyon, see if there's more we can salvage."

"I'm betting once the new rig is good to go, she'll want you along on missions, useful having a blackthumb who really knows the rig." Kompass said idly, and Rett nearly choked on his own tongue. “‘Ey, Repair crews’ve sorted themselves out under Ace and Janey yet?” Kompass continued, as if he hadn't just upended Rett's whole expectation.

Rett hummed weakly. He scrambled to stick with the conversation instead of begging for more information. Whatever was decided about Rett's position, it would be up to the Imperator anyway and it wasn't like this information motivated him any more than he already was to build her the best rig he possibly could. He could act natural about this, he could.

“ _Janey_?” Rett had seen the fighting to get on the new Imperator Ace’s repair team but... “That old breeder the Boss brought back?”

“My lizard’s on her getting her belt promotion sooner rather than later.”

"More like _accepting_ her belt promotion,” Razor broke in grumpily, coming over to sit down next to Rett. "I reckon she could have it today if she asked for it." He nodded a hello at Kompass, and bumped shoulders companionably with Rett. They’d both fought for, and won, their surgeries from the Mechanic around the same time but Razor was a few years older, had always been taller and broader, and been snatched up quickly to be a driver for Imperator Tine; it’d taken a bit longer for Rett to be taken in with Furiosa’s repair crew.

"So why hasn't she?"

"Who knows? She ain't from the Citadel. Got weird ideas. Gave aqua cola to a warboy gone feral, tried to bring him back. We've been trying to get her to see things right, but..."

“Huh.” Rett scratched at his nose, thinking of the uproar in the bays when Janey came back from that salvage trip. “Explains some things, it does.”

“Don’t suppose you could put in a word to her?” Razor looked all hopeful at Kompass, who shrugged.

“Last I know, both Ace and Furiosa’d talked to her some,” Kompass squinted a little, “You call yourselves her crew, right? Pretty insistent on her in specific, are you? All of you?”

“All of us.” Razor nodded, “Look, there’s only two official Imperators right? Not enough for all who can fight or repair or do runs, and we all did a run with her, Janey that is. If we did a run with her we should get to be her crew."

"Stands to reason," Rett agreed. _Doing the job without getting the title wasn't fair._

"Right chrome the way she treated the war boys we found, too," Razor said.

“Issat so?”

He nodded, “A bit strange sometimes, but her orders are workable, and everything seems to fall out okay. If we were to crew at all, it would be with her wouldn’t it?” Razor’s jaw was hard as he continued, “And we would be stuck all half-out a window if we were her crew and she weren’t Imperator.”

“Can’t go forward, can’t go back,” Kompass agreed, humming. “Didn’t realize it got to that point. Most or all are pretty upset, are they?”

“Would reckon so. We know she's a stranger and all, but we thought she'd understand by now. Dunno why the Tribunes haven't gone ahead and promoted her. You’d think they’d be quicker to do that than picking a war boy.”

“It’s Ace though,” but Kompass nodded seeing their point, “I’ll ask a Tribune for their thoughts, maybe they could talk to Janey or at least start up the belt craft process so it’ll go smooth once she agrees.”

Just then the music ended, and in a moment of silence as the dancers came to a halt, laughing and pausing for water, Rett noticed that Furiosa and Ace had come in. Ace still looked pale, a bandage around his throat, but he was walking upright, chatting to Furiosa.

 _He must be healing okay,_ Rett thought. That was good. His new crew must be relieved too, because to have been chosen and then immediately lose their Imperator would have been rust. It was probably as much a show of strength and reassurance that Ace appeared today, as for the festivity itself.

“Here, let me check in on Ace first, see if he'll talk to her some more before we havta go over her head and bring in the Tribunes," Kompass said.

Razor nodded, clearly relieved. And Rett was glad, because surely Ace would understand the issue, and be able to explain it to Janey. He'd been a warboy himself. It was pretty awful not knowing if you had a place to earn your keep and be useful.

 

* * *

 

“Wait, Janey really don’t know that they’re waitin’ on her?”

Ace stared at Kompass as his former second lead him across the room to where the other war boy last caught a glimpse of the older woman. The room had filled up enough that it was hard to see across the room less you were standing and even then it was hard to find who you were looking for through all the bodies and heads. Didn’t help that the Vuvalini tended towards gear similar in color to the Citizens, and no few of them had come to check out the shindig and ended up staying. He even caught sight of Corpus at one point being nestled carefully on a ledge and having conversations with those too tired or wary of dancing.

"I think she knows, what with the belts and all, but not what it means," Kompass replied.

“Thought she’d realize it weren’t a passing thing and then step up to the role,” Ace said, trying to remember that time she’d spoken of it to him.

“I remember you talkin’ about it, like she needed to get used to the idea. Is it because it’s never been done that it hasn’t even occurred to her? An outsider as an Imperator, that is.”

“Who’d expected a _half-life_ to be made Imperator,” Ace retorted. “And yet here I am with this hanger weighing down my pants.”

“Yeah, careful they don’t fall down.” Kompass grinned and dodged Ace’s answering swat. “Hey Janey!”

The Vuvalini looked up at the call, swinging her long silver braids over her shoulder, and Ace had to bite off his reply to Kompass as he waved back and sat down next to her. He tried to hide the fact that he was easing down into the seat, making sure he was turned toward her, still a little sore from the surgery. He knew people were watching him carefully. But she seemed to catch it in his movement and looked a little concerned, turning toward him so he didn't need to strain his neck sideways to talk.

Kompass waited until he was settled and then nodded, satisfied, and wandered off to see if Furiosa needed anything.

“What brings y’over here, Ace?”

“Heard some news from some of yours.” Ace watched her carefully for her expression.

“Some of mine?” Janey replied, “What do you mean.”

“The war boys that had been under your command.” Ace looked at her, “You don’t consider them your men? Was there a problem on the run?”

“Not with the crew, no,” she frowned, “Why do you think there was a problem?”

“Well, would you like to replace them? Oti and Kompass and I are still working out the last of our crews and we can switch people around if you feel some would more suit on _your_ crew.”

“My… crew?” Her face did something he couldn't quite read. “That makes it sound so permanent.”

“You don’t want it to be.” Ace stated and couldn’t help a note of disappointment creeping in.

“The Vuvalini, we’ve never done it like that.”

“Huh?”

“It’d be teams— _crews_ ,” she said as if correcting herself learning new slang, “formed on the fly, tailored to whatever needed doing.”

“Doesn’t that take time though?” Ace’s forehead furrowed.

“Saves time and energy in the end,” she shot back, “When there is no wasted energy and no hard feelings for anyone being given more than they could manage.”

“But if you can’t manage then why would you be on a crew?”

She opened her mouth, and closed it again, peering at him, “Has it ever occurred that some might manage better if they didn’t get picked for a task so often, or at certain times? We didn't have many people, and those we had needed to last, not get worn down to the bone."

Ace stared at her blankly. “But that means they can’t manage anyway.”

"You give engines time to cool down, don't you? Pick the right sorta cars for the right jobs?" She shook her head, “Nevermind, probably a debate for another day. No, there's nothing wrong with the crew I took out salvaging. They worked together fine, took direction well enough."

“But you don’t want to keep them.” Ace pointed out.

“I don’t want to ‘keep’ anyone!” She said sharply, “People aren’t _owned_.”

Ace tried to shake his head, and grimaced at the pull on his stitches. "Imperators don't own, they _lead_." He sighed at her apparent refusal to see this. "They think you claimed them, and that they failed in some way for you not to want to keep them. So they've got stuck in this half-role they’re sitting in now, where they're a crew doing a crew's work, but they don't have an Imperator. If you don't want to keep them, we'll need to find some other place for them."

"Wait, they think they failed?"

"It escape you that they're tryin' to get your favour?"

"No, but... "

"Most of them never stood a chance of being picked for a crew, before. They're upset at having blown their one chance for a position.”

“What? They didn't blow— and what does position have to do with anything!” Janey burst out, frustrated, “So much is tied up with position and hierarchy here that—”

“Well how are they going to get a crew’s rations then?” Ace asked, exasperated.

“Rations?”

“Tribunes might have some other ideas and shake things up, but as far as I sees they haven’t yet really touched the systems that Distro and the Greenthumbs have. Everybody gets their standard in the meal hall, and then an Imperator gets Crew Rations, extra protein biscuits mostly, to hand out to their crew, on account of them doin' extra work. If there’s salvage, Stuffs works out the equivalent portion per crewmember and they get a pick from the stores.”

Janey squinched her gaze at him dubiously, “I haven’t heard anything the like.”

Ace stared back at her, “Well how didya expect it to work?” Then he thought about it a bit and supposed the Tribunes had no idea of the details of crew allocation and it’s not like Furiosa had been well enough to participate in meetings for most of the past forty or so days. He wondered darkly if Distro had been keeping back that information from the Tribunes on purpose and if they’d still be requesting the same amount of rations— further, where those rations are, now that there are far fewer crew. He’ll have to look into that.

He sighed. "In any case, they’re being shorted.”

Janey face screwed up in something that might be guilt.

“Is it really so bad to be called Imperator?” Ace pointed out, “It’s not like you haven’t taken up the role in practically all but name.”

She stared at him, and he almost laughed, because apparently she hadn't realised that.

“Leading the crews? Being a go-between for the Tribunes and the War boys? Keepin' an eye on the moods and scuffles? Making sure nothing gets the Tribunes unawares? I know you been doin' that, and those are Imperators’ tasks.”

“Are they now.”

“Leastways they _were_ , under— well. Dunno if the Tribunes want t’change it up, but however you hash it you’ve taken on a leadership role. You’ve got people depending on you now.”

“Really.”

Ace thought that her tone was a weird sort of flat, and uncertain. It was quiet as if she was only speaking to herself.

"If you don't want to do it, do you know of somebody else suitable? These guys would like it to be you, but I reckon they'd work with anybody willing to claim them." Because in the end, no one can really force a person to be a leader; it will fail at some point, sooner or later, and the fallout landing hardest on the men themselves who were supposed to have someone behind them. And Ace felt particularly responsible that the war boys in the Citadel were taken care of, he had the position now to give voice to their concerns.

"I'll think about it," she finally said.

Ace supposed that was the best he could hope for.

 

* * *

 

Janey shook her head as Ace got to his feet and went back to mingling, reassuring everybody that he was recovering with his steady presence.

 _You think you’ve learned enough about yourself and the world and then something makes you realize yet again just how little you know,_ she thought wryly. She hadn't even realised the Warboys might have taken her taking them on that mission as a promise and might be genuinely upset at her rejection of the title. Might take it as a rejection of themselves.

Warboys had been raised to give themselves to the Immortan, to the purpose of the Citadel. Being denied what they felt was their sole purpose in life had to be difficult for them.

And further, in their eyes she was denying them extra rations. A working crew had higher caloric needs, but she didn't know how she felt about the idea of being given the extra rations to hand them out. It sounded like another way to give an Imperator power over their crew. Her feelings on the unfairness of it didn't change anything for the crew though, and how they were used to running things and how they thought of her.

She thought she had shaken off her old, long-burning anger at the War Boys' existence and their deeds against the Wasteland. Against the violent presence that could be felt even second hand, many miles outside their territory, because the Vuvalini had avoided any Citadel interaction. How they’d had to fade into the desert more than once to avoid cars with white-painted bodies, especially since the Green Place soured and they’ve had to rove wider and wider for supplies. But perhaps sometimes she needed the reminder that if she wanted this Citadel to be a new Green Place, the warboys mattered, _had_ to matter.

She knew that the warboys were still restless after discovering about the lead poisoning, after losing Joe as the figure to look up to. They were uncertain of their place in the new Citadel, seeking for stability, for safety. They needed leaders now, provide some of the steadiness that had so recently dropped away. No matter what _she_ thought was fair, if they weren't being treated in what _they_ saw as fairness, that could impact not just the warboys she'd taken out on the salvage mission, but all of them.

And they wanted her to lead.

And it wasn't… wasn't a displeasing thought to be able to give these warboys, of lower social status because they weren't all strong, weren't all healthy, weren't all what Joe had thought was _right_ , a way to prove themselves. She remembered looking at them as she walked through the garages, trying to figure out who to bring with her on that run, and thinking she saw potential.

She wondered how Furiosa's crew had looked before they'd become hers. That being part of her crew had made a difference for them was undeniable.

Well. It wasn't like she was planning on taking on _all_ of Furiosa’s habits with her crew, but. But there was a settledness to them, and a carefulness towards women. She suspected Furiosa's crew had adjusted so quickly to the new Citadel because they'd already been more Furiosa's than Joe's, having worked under her leadership more closely than they ever did that man’s.

Janey thought about Ace asking her who else she would make Imperator. About the job as he’d listed it, and who else might be willing or capable of doing the things she was doing.

Gale would be capable, even Gilly, but not willing. Vicks hadn't the temperament to lead. None of the women in the Citadel she knew well were well-trained enough to lead a crew outside the Citadel, if they even had interest. Most of them weren't keen on interacting with Warboys more than necessary. Toast, perhaps, one day. But not yet. She was taking to the self defense class quickly and kept asking for more training in weapons, driving, and riding, but was still a beginner in much of it.

And the thing was, too, Janey didn’t want to stop what she was doing from day to day; much of what Ace termed leadership was she’d mentally categorized as ‘scouting’ and it’d made her feel more aware and more secure to talk to everyone herself and make sure everyone was on the same page. Leading the crew on that run reassured her that everything would be looked at what needed to be looked at, and that everyone would be taken care of.

And she wanted to take care of them. For themselves, of course but also…. also, because even though they now number more than the Vuvalini ever did, they were still too few for the Citadel. Not enough.

They were not enough to fully be safe from the Wasteland but— and here was a secret that the remaining Vuvalini had told each other to keep safe until the girls were ready to hear it (until _Furiosa_ was ready to hear it)— there was always a feeling of ‘never enough’ even in the Green Place. They were constantly concerned for the future, if their stores would stretch, if the seeds would last and how many they can safety risk on each growth cycle when the sandstorms were so unpredictable and the crows so unrelenting.

There was no safety to be had in this world, only improved circumstances.

A shadow fell over her, and she looked up, having been so deep in thought she hadn't seen Max approach. He looked a little wide-eyed, as if there were too many people and too much noise, but for some reason he'd decided to be here anyway.

"Hey."

He hummed a greeting and sat down next to her, and together they watched the dancing for a while. The Music Boys were doing the forefront of the integration, one of them playing on a ukelele and the two others being taught the steps of a dance by a grinning young woman. Janey noticed that some of the warboys standing around were watching carefully, as if they were making mental notes of the lesson but weren't quite ready to venture onto the floor.

They were watching each other too, as if daring one another to join. Even as she watched, one of them caved and approached the group. She was surprised to see it was Kompass, not the first warboy she would have expected to dance. He was being gestured forward by Polaris. Oti followed, saying something about representing Ace’s crew.

Janey watched Furiosa and Ace watch them with a grin, nudging Rachet onto the dancefloor too.

"Thank you," she said to Max. "For— for helping Ace. I know it was… a big thing." She’d spoken with some of the freed people who’d been bloodbags, trying to help out Capable, but there’d been such deep horror at the concept of once again letting themselves be pressured into being bled that she hadn’t the stomach to press to change their minds. She was relieved that Max had stepped up because if Ace had passed, and it’d been due to how she hadn’t been insistent enough, she would have felt responsible.

"Hm. Didn't— want to lose him. Didn't want her to lose him," he said awkwardly, as uncomfortable with praise or thanks as she remembered.

"We appreciate that you're staying for it." Janey had noticed him before the surgery roving with an eye towards the horizon and had spoken to Toast and Cheedo, who’d told her about how Max was looking for a chance to leave. To trade, they’d said he’d told them, but neither of them had put much stock into the excuse.

He huffed a breath, self deprecating. "Been tryin' to leave. Not going so well."

"People have a way of drawing you in, don't they?" she sympathized. "Never thought I'd get so involved here either. My crew, the guys I took on that salvage mission - they're trying to make me their Imperator. They’re all upset, apparently, that I’m not one yet. Worried I've rejected them."

"Have you?"

"Not intentionally, anyway."

"But you don't— don't wanna be Imperator?"

"I don't know. I mean Furiosa is but I’d never thought it’d apply to, well, to _me_."

"Called them your crew," he pointed out. "Just now."

"Did I?"

He grunted an affirmative, and she could see an amused tilt to his mouth.

And that. That perhaps said it all didn’t it, if she was already calling them hers. If she was pulling so hard against something just because of a name, just because of a term she didn’t like, and yet was a role she lived every day with and gladly, wasn’t that foolish? She didn’t like the connotations of the title, but maybe she could make new ones, better ones, like they are making this Citadel a better one.

 _Imperator Janey,_ she thought experimentally and cringed at the strangeness of the sound. Maybe 'Boss' was better. She thought she could deal with that, and shifted her attention away from it because maybe she just needed time.

“And how has _your_ crew been?”

“...mine?”

“All you that’s Fury’s. I see Ace seems to be up and about, and everyone’s healing up well.” She nodded over at where Ace was perched with Furiosa. “But, how are you, ah, settling in with them?” Janey asked delicately, not quite sure where they were all at, emotionally or physically or otherwise.

 

* * *

 

"I, ah— um."

Max could feel his face grow hot, his brain helpfully supplying just how settled in he'd been between Furiosa's thighs, a few nights ago. It had been— and just as startling, he'd felt no urge to leave, afterward. Had found a space at the edges of them, comfortably heavy-limbed and sleepy. Vaguely remembered waking from a restless dream to somebody's low-voiced reassurances. It had been… good.

He hadn't gone back to her bed the night after. Or the nights since. Had spent the night elsewhere or perched on the window ledge. None of them had said anything different, even though he'd eaten dinner at their table the other day, even though they interacted normally during the day. By now he wasn't sure how to act or what to say if he went back to them with the darkness hit. And he _wanted_ to.

That was the scariest part. He didn't _want_ to go out into the Wastes. He wanted to stay. He was stuck at middle distance, not ready to leave, unable to return to her bed.  

And while he was heading towards being reassured that he wouldn’t misstep here, he was still not entirely certain. He still didn’t trust himself. Still found himself needing air at times.

“Seems… settled here. This place. Seems calm.” he said uneasily

“Don’t trust it?”

“Calm never lasts long, not if I’m around.”

“Never lasts long anyways, what are you on?”

And Max has to chuckle because that’d echoed Ace’s words from a couple of days ago. “You sound like him. Ace.”

“Well I did think that he has his head on straight,” she paused seeming to think, “Look, before my run out there, to follow up on the salvage you found, you did a good job of making sure I knew what to expect.”

Max shifted his gaze away, “It was…”

“Yeah it _was_ what it was, do you think I haven’t seen its like in the Wastes?” her eyes sharpened at him, “I didn’t think that was because you thought me not strong enough to handle it.”

“Not that but,” Max searched for words, of how to explain this thing that felt so obvious because the knowledge of it suffocates him daily, ”it breaks people. The Wasteland.”

 _I am broken,_ he thought. Small. Suffocated.

“ _Living_ breaks people,” Janey said at him slowly, “Do you not— I got the sense you were trying to ward me, telling me those things of those war boys had to do to survive.”

Max shifted uncomfortably.

“I don’t blame them for surviving. For trying to.” She took a long careful breath. “Did you know one killed himself for it? Soon as he was lucid enough to understand what he'd done."

He searched her gaze for the meaning behind this, not understanding how it related.

Janey stared at him steadily, “Couldn’t live with himself for the doing of it, killing his friend. His family, or something like, to hear tell the crew talk of them. He couldn’t live with being responsible for that.”

There was a large stone in Max’s throat, and he was unable to meet her eyes. The words were too close to true, too close to everything he couldn’t let himself think about. Too close to his past and lit fuses and walking away. He was good at walking away except—

“When I gave him enough food, enough water, to stop him from feeling desperate? He stopped being violent at us.” She turned her face away from him and Max sagged a little in relief, “First thing he chose to do was apparently to brain himself with a rock. Dunno if it was just because of guilt, or because he just wanted to stop thinking. Stop trying.”

Max hummed uneasily, unsure what she wanted from him.

“I think he could’ve found a place in this new Citadel,” Janey cleared her throat, “Find enough of us with regrets and with things that make us sleep uneasy, all made sharp and strange by how the world fell.”

Her words fell in a sudden hush, the space between one song and the next. And then a undulating cry started up and the pace of the music spun out fast, then faster, and Janey straightened.

She looked over her shoulder at the dancers and stood up.

"They're playing my song," she apologized with a wry grin and strode towards the dancing.

Max noticed that the other Vuvalini had appeared, Vicks leading a rhythm in handclaps until the drums followed her. The former breeders looked intrigued. Gale had gone over to Furiosa, who was shaking her head, her face tight, one hand pressed absently to a metal elbow. Gale pressed their foreheads together for a moment and went back to the others.

He couldn’t help lingering on her words, about staying. About trying.

There was a sudden shout and a clap and Max looked up. He saw the crew laughing and trying to mimic the steps and the arm movements, how Furiosa got pulled in while Ace demurred, shaking his head and pointed at his neck.

Ace caught him looking and then arched an eyebrow at him.

 _Well?_ The eyebrow seemed to ask.

It didn't feel mocking, Ace never did. It felt like being shown a way inside, being invited in on a joke.

Max slowly got up and Ace grinned at him and shouted something towards the dancers. It felt like there was an endless number of them now all moving like a great surge of water, and they all turned and waved to him, beckoning. Furiosa looked over too as if from on high, surrounded by Vuvalini and now Tribunes, and made a space beside her.

And Max found himself pushing through the crowd.

As if lifted.

 

* * *

 

Furiosa didn’t understand how Max could possibly know this dance better than she did. How _Feng and Giddy_ could know this dance. They were dancing it as well as Vicks and Gale, no hesitation in their movements, and wasn't that a sight?

They were _wiggling their hips_. Furiosa couldn’t. She couldn't help but be distracted, trying to reconcile her memories of her rage at the Soundless with—

With _this_.

They were _shimmying_.

“HaaaaaAAY!” Everyone spun and clapped. The Vuvalini hooting and cheering and completely coordinated.

And yet she kept turning the wrong way and even Max didn’t. She must have done this dance as a child, groups of them lined up by the campfire, but she had never felt further from that young girl than right now. She felt ungainly and out of place, unfit for purpose, good only for War. At the next turn she quietly made her way out of the crowd, fingers worrying at the straps of her arm as she reclaiming her seat next to Ace. Wished she'd worn one of the simple, light arms they'd made for her. The weight of her metal one made everything worse, reminded her of who she'd been, what she'd done with it. She closed her eyes, clenched her teeth against the images of Afterburn's face.

She worn this one out of habit though, still feeling naked without it. Didn't quite know if she could be without it now either, if she would feel any better with it off, her side defenceless, open. She felt removed, uneasy and alone in this crowd, and like it was somehow all over her face and Ace could read it like a signal light.

It was good to see everyone together, celebrating. That everyone was here peacefully and getting to know each other in a context that wasn’t tinged with fear or worry. Good that Max started dancing with them on his own. He glanced over at her from the middle of his own little knot of people, Austeyr crashing into him with a older citizen at his side, some milkers having arrived finally and joining in with faux-stern teasing, Dag dancing with a hand on her belly, beginning to show now. She was gesturing at both her new hair and Max’s unruly tangle, to Max’s increasingly alarmed expression that Rachet was helplessly sniggering at all in a huddle with Kompass’ sister.

It didn't make sense that she felt like crying. There was nothing to feel sad about.

Maybe she should leave.

But after a glance at her Ace still said nothing, only lightly bumped his shoulder against hers, his smile saying, _Stay_ , and she leaned against him gratefully. His arm came around her back, and she sighed, relaxing against him. After a while, the two of them watching a different dance now, she found herself prying open the buckles at her waist after all, and she let her arm slide to the floor.

“Mmm?” Ace hummed in question. It sounded soothing and dusty.

“Unneeded right now,” fell out of her mouth, "Weighs me down."

“Th’ straps?” Ace murmured, clearly willing to help her have them adjusted.

She toed the metal arm carefully to where it wouldn’t even hang in her peripherals, because even if it wasn’t the same arm, now with so many parts replaced...“The memories.” She still felt the old ache of killing blows jar her shoulder.

Ace nudged himself closer to her side as if gluing them together and she felt of-a-piece with him, like he was making himself her arm. Like back when she'd driven a motorbike and he'd been her lancer sometimes, pressed up against her back, moving like they were one being.

She turned towards him and felt her lungs expand as if a weight had been pushed off it. She should—

In the far corner there was suddenly a shout and a flurry of motion.

“ _Imperator Janey!_ ” Razor roared and the cheer was taken up by warboys around him as Janey looked around with no small amount of surprise and fondness, a somewhat embarrassed flush on her face. Tribunes Cheedo and Toast was talking to her at her side and it looked like some Council members were whispering together at the edges of the party, but most of the rest of the party just about boiled over with excitement, the music returning at a quicker pace and the dancing increasing in energy.

Furiosa laughed a little. _Finally._

"'Bout time," Ace said, nodding his head toward the circle of excited warboys that had just realised they were an Imperator's crew. Austeyr and Kompass were there too, clapping Warboys on the shoulder. Rachet was beaming, and Max seemed to be congratulating Janey.

"Yeah," Furiosa said, looking at Ace again. Tilted her head, because something was different about him and she didn't understand why she hadn't realised before. She reached out to him, lightly touched his face. The numb half that didn't move. Except it was moving, his mouth wasn't drooping nearly as much as it used to. As she traced it with her fingertips, his lips curled up.

“Yeah,” she smiled back.

**Author's Note:**

> In order of appearance:
> 
> [Sunflower viability in arid conditions.](http://www.burpee.com/gardenadvicecenter/annuals/sunflowers/all-about-sunflowers/article10035.html) [Sunflower oil as beauty product.](http://www.youbeauty.com/beauty/9-ways-use-sunflower-oil-beauty-product/)
> 
> Naaka's instrument is the [qanun](https://www.google.com/search?q=qanun&oq=qanun&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.729j0j7&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8#q=qanun&tbm=vid)
> 
> re: musical instruments, MOAR COWBELL
> 
> re: warboy, yes that is short for WD40
> 
> There was a discussion on [whether or not the traditional dance of the Vuvalini is or is not the electric slide](http://bonehandledknife.tumblr.com/post/138910058920/words-writ-in-starlight-primarybufferpanel). It was raised that it could have been the cha cha slide instead, or the macarena. We settled on a version of the macarena as if it has been passed through a game of telephone.
> 
> And it's pretty much impossible for me to imagine that bit with Imperator Janey arriving into that group of war boys without thinking HERE COMES THE GENERAL.
> 
> There's like, two points in this entire thing were I was really trying to call back to a specific point in the movie. Cheedo's voice in the canyons saying "he's dead" was the image I had for Epic when she told their story. And here, the end of Max's POV is directly calling back to the end of the movie, with the lift and the sea of people.
> 
>  
> 
> Endless thanks to our awesome supporters, who are helping to make it possible for Primarybufferpanel to go to Wasteland Weekend and for us co-writers to finally meet!


End file.
